2 am is not the ideal time to have your rental car break down.

A gang-infested district of L.A. Is not the best location for such a breakdown to occur. Especially when one is driving one of the most sought after models of the year.

America grumbled as he flipped his cell phone shut. Being late was going to get him yelled at again. England just might understand that the flight delay from the east coast, but not the car (A reliable model usually, however not tonight), the shortcut he'd taken to try and get to the hotel a little closer to on time,or the fact that Alfred hadn't called him to let him know that things were following Mr. Murphy's law tonight.

The truth was, after the call to the rental company, his cell had snapped right into line with the laws that were in force. The battery died without a warning squawk.

At least the rental company knew where he was, and had promised to do something about this little problem.

Alfred stepped out of the car, intent on getting into his luggage, and the cell charger that he somehow remembered packing in his duffel bag. If the battery in the car wasn't dead, he'd at least be able to have a way to let Arthur know what was going on- and despite the reputation of this area of town, everything seemed quiet enough.

The trunk popped noiselessly, and Alfred bent to rummage through his bag, swearing as his phone slipped out of his hand, and clattered to the pavement.

That was why he missed the sound of footsteps on the broken pavement, until the gun was shoved into his ribs.

"Hand over your keys, prettyboy, and I'll let you walk out of this."

Great. "If you're looking to steal a ride, you might want to find one that works." Alfred could overpower the kid- no problem. The gun, however might be a problem. Well. He'd taken bullets before- but it hurt like crazy, and while it wouldn't kill him, he really didn't want deal with that. Not tonight.

"Fuck that. I should just cap your dumb ass right now. You think I'm stupid."

"Pretty much," Alfred said with a quick jab to where he now knew the thief's ribs were. If he were lucky, the kid would end up with a couple of broken ribs, and a lick of common sense.

"What the hell-" The gun went off, shattering a taillight.

The conversation went downhill from there, as the thief, not gaining any smarts from blow that had thrown his aim off pulled the trigger again, even as he was staggering backwards from said blow.

Shit. Alfred hadn't counted on that.

In the slow motion that this alley had become, America saw red splattering against his glasses before he felt the burning white hot pain in his throat.

Arthur's going to be so pissed off. The random thought hit him as darkness started creeping up on him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't- stand. Falling to his knees, to the pavement, as the ground turned blackish red in the halogen street lights.

The dead cellphone mocked him from a few inches away, while he fought for oxygen, to move, to see through blood-spattered and crooked glasses.

"I told you, fucker." The face of the teenager that had just shot him was hardened. Angry. Unbalanced. He was coming closer, menacing- but Alfred couldn't move.

And then more pain- something striking him. The man shouted something more, but in the eddies of the tides of unconsciousness, the words were lost.